


Tickets, Please

by r_lee



Category: Baccano!
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 20:30:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/r_lee/pseuds/r_lee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything is beautiful and nothing hurts. Or: Claire Stanfield has a conversation with himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tickets, Please

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jennaria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennaria/gifts).



Vino. They call me Vino because the color most associated with me, although not particularly virulently or inappropriately, is the color red. Red like wine, red like a good old-fashioned glass of tomato juice, red like a cherry sucker, red like blood. Maybe the color association is meant in a particular or derogatory way, but it doesn't matter what other people think, do, or say. I am the absolute center of my world, the master of everything I see or hear or think about, and sooner or later everyone bends to my will if I want them to. I'm faster, more intelligent, certainly stronger in a manner that in no way could be misconstrued as conceited. I trained in a circus. My sparring partners were bears. I fear nothing.

Except Chane Laforet. No, no, let me recapitulate: I don't have any actual fear of Chane. Yes, she's deadly with a set of knives but that only makes me fall in love with her again every time I watch her move with such precision and intent. Yes, she's beautiful and beautifully silent but that only means I get to do the talking for both of us, and as anyone who knows me would likely volunteer, I like to talk and never find myself at an impasse when it comes to plucking the right terminology out of the ether and engaging it by means of a sentence. I'll rephrase: I don't have any fear of Chane. The only fear I have associated with her in any way shape or form is the fear of losing her, either to some random act of misfortune or to having put my foot in my mouth one time too many. She won't be able to speak to tell me when that happens, so my sworn and solemn duty is to make sure I never make the pivotal error that results in her departure.

⊗

_Marry me._ I've said the words so many times I've lost track. Sometimes they've been met with a slap across the cheek, sometimes with a grin, sometimes with a laugh, sometimes with horror (I had to kill those girls. Only joking. Mostly). Hey, I'm not the sort of fella who takes answers lightly, even though it might seem presumptuous of me to have proposed something as long-lasting and fidelity-inspiring as marriage to so many beautiful women over the years. To be perfectly frank, love is the one mystery of this life whose shell I have yet to crack, even a little bit. I used to see it and laugh at the poor saps caught in its embrace, helpless to stop themselves from falling over the edge of something they could barely even recognize. I knew all those times I asked that it wasn't gonna happen for me, but I had to ask anyway. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's a mystery. I ought to be able to solve any predicament thrown my way. After all, it's my world. But what good is it to be omnipotent? I've always had a thirst for learning, and only by putting stumbling blocks in my way can I further my education.

⊗

In the past, the thing I lived for was the thrill of the hunt. There's something remarkably spectacular in the power inherent in taking away someone's breath, their last breath, and feeling them stop struggling beneath your hands. All I'd intended on doing was taking the train from Chicago to New York to see the Gandors as requested. Nice and peaceful, no fuss, no muss. But then they killed Tony, and the only possible path down which to walk was the path of retribution. I started out taking revenge on the people who did in Tony, after a little bit of investigative work. The thing about wearing a conductor's uniform is this: no one pays you any attention. To them, I was just part of the woodwork, just the guy collecting their fare, answering their questions, making sure the train got from Point A to Point B with a minimum of fanfare or distraction. They talked, carelessly, and made what occasionally proved to be fatal assumptions about the people they didn't really see. Wearing that uniform made me just as invisible as anyone and twice as unseen as most, and it also made it so easy to gather the necessary information. What a great train ride it turned out to be. Not only did I get to teach those suits who did in Tony a thing or two—call it their last lesson, if you want—but I got to spread around my favorite color _and_ play tag with a few immortals. They're so much fun to kill. And to kill, and to kill, and to kill. Who knew? Well, I'd guessed it might be, of course, but the extent of the fascination one feels killing someone who can't actually die was just an additional if unexpected bonus. Die. Oh, you can't? Here, let me try harder.

And for the rest? Frightening people is even better than killing them sometimes. There's untapped power in being able to do so with a word, a smile, a turn of phrase. _Tickets, please._ That's my favorite, or at least it was when I was a conductor. There's something about getting right in someone's face and whispering the words nice and low and easy that sets hearts to palpitating and palms to sweating, and spreading rumors and fear simultaneously only takes a small amount of skill. We're no longer on the Flying Pussyfoot and I'm no longer a conductor. I'm no longer really Claire Stanfield either; that's a name I'm ready to ditch although I have yet to find a new name that fits. In the meantime, I'll go by Rail Tracer. It's got a ring to it, don't you think? That kid Czes thought so, when he ran screaming out of the alley. Couldn't kill him, but it didn't mean I was gonna stop trying. It's just that Chane, that vision of loveliness, that most beautiful and elegant of dolls, caught my attention instead. Standing up there on the roof of the train fighting that suit, Ladd, that was something. She not only caught my attention but she reeled it in and I knew right then and there I wanted to marry her. The thought process went something like this:

_\- All right, Claire, here you are, face to face with the most amazing woman you've ever seen. She's gorgeous, doesn't talk back—doesn't even need to talk—and has a better handle on those knives than most people have on any weapon their entire lives. What are you gonna do about it?_

_\- I'm gonna ask her to marry me._

_\- You always ask girls to marry you, and they always say no._

_\- This one won't say no. She's not scared of anything. Not even of the Rail Tracer._

_\- I know. Isn't it great? I hope she wins the fight._

Of course the world was mine and the night was mine and the outcome... the outcome was never in doubt, but I had to ask. Once I found out who she was, I had to offer her all the protection I could. It was the only decent thing to do, not that I've made a habit out of always doing the most decent thing. Still, she struck me like a vision, like some sort of knife-bearing angel from above, quiet and heavenly and deadly, and I knew right away she was the girl for me. I also knew I had to lose her for a while, but if she said yes then I knew I could find her. I'm not bad at that sort of thing. When I saw her answer carved into the roof of the train, my heart started to sing and it wasn't singing the song about how big Manhattan was and how hard it would be to find people there. It sang the one about how side by side, we could kill anyone we put our minds to, and we could do it together. It sang the song about how great knives were as a choice of weapons. It sang a song of silence, of communicating without speaking. Mostly, though, my racing heart was just amazed that after all this time the one who got a yes to his proposal wasn't Claire Stanfield and it wasn't Vino. It was the Rail Tracer. I guess I'd been going about it wrong all those years.

⊗

No guy in a blue jumpsuit wielding a wrench gets in my way. That's nothing more than a fly who needs swatting: easy to take care of. One or two swipes, a somersault or two, and bam, gone. But Chane's wearing the dress already, the dress with the essential embellishments designed to hide knives and I might not know very much about women, but I know something about Chane: those knives are part of her. The way she holds them, the way she fights with them, they're extra hands to her. Deadly ones, and on the way to the warehouse, following along behind the rest of the crowd, all I can think of is how good she is with them and how the knives are as logical an extension of who she is as anything else ever would or could be.

Rachel was right about sending a present. That was a good idea, and as it turned out Manhattan wasn't and isn't too big for me. Finding her didn't take very many miracles. Just a little bit of persuasion, the old-fashioned kind. Nick came around pretty fast, but people usually do when they're looking death square in the face. Persuasion: another art I like to practice, although with Chane I'm dropping all the persuasion and all the will-bending. It's way too much fun to see how it happens naturally. Or maybe I'm not as in control as I like to think, but that's just Claire talking. With one hand I catch the giant wrench being thrown our way—not now, blabbermouth, can't you see that Chane and I are in the middle of a conversation?—and with the other I keep everyone and everything at bay. My only interest is in the words I need to say and the words that don't need to be spoken to be heard in return. "You think you could love me?" Hey, I am a hundred percent reasonable when I want to be, ask anyone, and make an entirely generous offer. "We could start out as friends."

The answer's in her blush, in the way her eyes brighten. I don't know what she's thinking, but I know her answer. It might take a lifetime together to figure out how we got here, but I have time. I have time and so does Chane, and she's already a vision in white. Why am I not the least bit surprised when the fella in blue calls it a day, says we're free to go? Our fate was never in his hands anyway. It's always been in mine, and with the way my heart's swelling so much it's likely to leap right out of my chest, the outcome's inevitable.

Maybe I'll let Chane pick my new name. She'll get it right, I trust her. Maybe from now on I'll let her pick everything. It's increasingly clear to me that I don't need her words to listen to her heart, and that's one of the few things around here that makes perfect undeniable sense. Chane: I'm head over heels in love with the sound of her voice, and I've never even heard it.

This is going to be one wild ride. _Tickets, please._

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Paige, Kate, and Gabby for beta-reading.


End file.
